


Pandemonium Artists

by longhairQ



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairQ/pseuds/longhairQ
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Pandemonium Artists

You know what the problem is with a straight line? Mathematically, it don't gotta end. Frankly, I haven't seen lines what don't end up stopping eventually; a football spiraling through the air, a blaseball ricocheting off a bat, a train careening along trains. Eventually, somethin' gets in the way, and there ain't nothin' the line can do to stop it.

Pandemonium is a city of movement. Motion. Constant forward energy, kinetic power alive. Someone told me once that impulse is the harbinger of force—some kind of physics causality, relationship to reality. The people of Pandemonium are the most impulsive I have ever seen. And they can't. Stop. Moving.

'Cause of that, the streets move in loops, constantly coming back around. There's exits, sure, existing on the edges of the thing, buses that'll move you out to Hades or Baltimore or what have you. But 'cause of that constant circinate velocity, motion don't stop at any point. It keeps looping around the center of gravity here in the town, like a satellite orbiting a moon, constantly getting faster.

Pandemonium is a particle accelerator.

Even colors don't stay the same—you look back at a street your second go-round and you see the neon pink sign has become neon cyan. Vibrating stars up above in the sky making picture-perfect long-exposure photographs what shift and shake, the whole town bumping with an over-exerted heart, black city streets zig-zagging through buildings of primary, secondary, tertiary, and colors you haven't ever seen before.

The Artists. Man, what a group. They feel those colors in their blood, they got that passionate beat in their chest, that rhythm bump that pervades and shakes tables, dugouts, stadiums. They leave everything tagged; the lines they run, the dugouts they stay in, hotel rooms, their opponent's bats. They slip/slide on ink pathways and drip their footprint signature into the sand of the blaseball diamond.

Someone told me the Sun got eaten by a Black Hole. I tell you what, if the Sun was still out when Pandemonium broke into the League, the Sun'd be painted over with rainbow colors, so much color that the Black Hole'd gag. Hell, the second one might wind up getting tagged with their signature too.

I see 'em practice sometimes. When they swing bats, the whole word sees the blaseball fly like technicolor, holographic afterimages cascading on top each other like a flip-motion sketchpad. You suddenly see every single version all at once. That's the scariest thing about Pandemonium, they got every possibility in their hands. They're artists, after all. Who knows how a sketch could turn out? Who knows what kinda conclusions you could paint over? Who knows how a mistake is gonna be treated in the final composition?

Paint the town dead, folks. They mean it.


End file.
